Agent Provocateur

by Christopher C Tubbs

  “It’s going to get worse I fear, my Lord.”

  “Just Lieutenant Stockley Royal Navy right now. Anything I can do to help?”

  “I could use your men if that would be possible. I have lost half a dozen injured by falls and one overboard so far.”

  “Certainly, they will prefer to be busy. Are we in sight of the rest of the convoy?”

  “Not seen them for the last couple of hours!”

  Marty roused his lads and they all went on deck and reported to the first mate. Wilson and Tom were assigned to the main mast, John sent to the quarter deck to relieve the helmsman and the Basques joined the topmen. Marty was worried about Antton’s hands, but he assured him they were fine.

  The storm built and built and reached a peak after two days. The men were exhausted and the passengers wretched. At its height, all they could do was hang on and pray. The captain tried to run before it and they were driven further south than they expected.

  It finally broke and the winds started to die down. The waves dropped from enormous, to huge, to large and settled down to big smooth rollers. The temperature had plummeted.

  “BERG! A POINT TO STARBOARD OFF THE BOW,” cried the lookout.

  “A what?” asked Caroline, who was on deck for some air, swathed in a fur coat and hat.

  “Iceberg,” replied Marty and walked her forward to where they could see it as it passed.

  It didn’t disappoint as it was easily as high as their foremast and two-hundred-feet across. The ice was a cold blue and they gave it a wide berth. The captain told them at dinner that icebergs had more ice below the surface than they did above and could rip the bottom of an unwary ship.

  Then a grey shape rose out of the steely grey waters and blew a fountain of spray high into the air.

  They grabbed each other and laughed in joy as the whale sounded, lifting its tail high in the air before sliding down below the surface. They saw several more and some dolphins as they turned North towards Cape Town.

  Cape Town was much as he remembered it and as they came in, they could see the other ships of their convoy moored up in the bay.

  The convoy stayed there to make repairs and to re-provision. They had dinner with the admiral who was enthralled with Lady Caroline. As they left his residence, she said,

  “He is a lecherous old man. He was looking at my breasts the whole meal.”

  “I can challenge him to a duel if you want,” Marty joked.

  “No, that won’t be necessary, my love,” she sighed at his gallant offer, “I made sure his wife noticed. I can imagine he is having a wonderful time right now.” Just then, they heard a crash from an upstairs room.

  “Retribution seems to have begun,” Marty quipped.

  They held each other close as they ran to the coach giggling all the way.

  The fleet got under way for the last leg of the trip to Madras. It was the end of June and the weather was on the turn from mid-winter. Caroline hadn’t known the seasons were inverted south of the equator and she was tired of winter weather.

  “You will be complaining you are too hot once we get to Madras,” he told her.

  They got hit by a winter storm as they rounded the corner and headed Northeast up the coast. This one was nowhere near as bad as the one in the South Atlantic, but it managed to scatter the convoy all the same. Marty had a strong, but private, view that merchant captains were too shy with their use of sails in bad weather and could manage much better than they did.

  But they woke up one morning all alone on the ocean, miles off their planned route in spite of the efforts of the captain and crew.

  Marty gathered the boys together to give them, and him, some exercise. So, they all had weapons in their hands when the cry came.

  “SAIL HO! TWO POINTS OFF THE LARBOARD BOW!”

  Marty made his way to the quarterdeck and looked up at the captain. He was looking thoughtful then noticed Marty standing there.

  “Would you join me, lieutenant,” he said.

  Interesting, he thought at hearing his Navy rank being used.

  “I have it in mind that we are going to be in for a fight.” He nodded in the direction of the unidentified ship. “I suspect it will be a Brigantine from the description I have been given. There is a privateer that has been operating in these waters who uses one.”

  “Where would he be based?” Marty asked as he had cleaned out Madagascar not that long before.

  “The island of Réunion, I suspect. We have been blown too far East and are in his range now.”

  Marty went to the chart and looked at the plot and could see that they were indeed sailing North up the East side of the island of Madagascar.

  He knew a Brig was of about one hundred tons and had a crew of around one hundred. It would normally carry between ten and twenty cannons. It would be an even fight if the merchant captain would put one up.

  “You have experience of fighting pirates have you not?” The captain asked.

  Marty took that as a rhetorical question and just waited.

  The captain looked slightly abashed and said,

  “My experience of fighting is limited to a few fist fights in bars when I was a mate. Could I prevail on you to advise?”

  Takes a big man to admit that especially to a younger like me.

  “I could fight the ship if you would sail it, sir,” Marty offered, “Like I was your first on a frigate.”

  “Capital idea!” The captain beamed at him.

  “If I may, can I ask your first mate to order the non-combatants down to the orlop deck out of harm’s way?”

  “Yes. Please do.” And he called the mate over to speak to him.

  Marty and Tom stood together and looked at the gun crews struggling to load the fifteen cannon on the larboard side.

  “When was the last time they did gun drill?” Marty asked.

  “Not on this trip,” Tom replied.

  “Do they have any experienced gunners?”

  “About a dozen.”

  “Shit! Right, make up three good crews and load all guns. Both sides. Those crews are responsible for three guns each, guns four to twelve. The other six gun crews are made up of the best of the rest. Load with canister over ball. Now, what the hell do they want?”

  A small delegation of about twenty passengers stood waiting by the mainmast.

  Marty waved Tom to carry on and stepped over to the men.

  “Gentlemen. You want to talk to me? Only we are a little busy right now.”

  One stepped forward and Marty recognised Colonel Masters.

  “My Lord.”

  Marty held up his hand.

  “Just Lieutenant Stockley,” Marty corrected.

  “Lieutenant. We are all men who are professional military men or have been in the Army or Navy. We would like to offer our services in the defense of the ship.”

  Marty looked them over and saw the well-kept weapons and the competent way they were held.

  “Thank you. I am sure we can use you. Now, if you will attend me, I will tell you what we will do.”

  An hour later, the Brig was close enough to see the open gun ports and the cannon sticking out of them. On the starboard side. Marty ran to the quarterdeck and talked to the captain. He looked surprised and asked a question then nodded.

  Marty returned to the main deck and barked orders. The gun crews ran to the starboard side then ran out and stood by their guns.

  John Smith was at the helm. Marty sacrificed him from the gun crews to have a hand he trusted at the wheel.

  They steered straight at the oncoming Brig. Marty knew he would wear as soon as he committed to attack so as to bring his starboard guns to bear. He waited.

  The skipper of the brig made his move. He wore to starboard coming around in a circle to end up with his starboard broadside against their closed off larboard guns. Marty waited until he was completely committed and ordered,

  “Run out the larboard guns!”

  Every third gun port from gun four
to twelve opened and the gun ran out. The crews had been hidden by their guns. The ‘crews’ from the starboard guns ran across, ran out the rest of the guns and then fell back to the centreline where they picked up muskets. Marty had his Durs Egg carbine and was ready to call the shots.

  The brig came around and her guns flashed. Chainshot screamed overhead. He had gone for their rigging. Marty signaled to the captain, and they steered to close the gap.

  The disadvantage with the weather gauge, Marty thought, is that it exposes your deck.

  They were two cables apart and he could see the brig’s gun crews reloading.

  “Fire.”

  The nine guns that were manned all fired together then four of the men from each of the three select crews ran to their second gun, laid them and fired, almost together. The two men left behind prepared the first gun for reloading. All the men then moved on one gun and repeated the process.

  They ran back to the first gun and started all over, but by now, the crews of the other six were ready and fired again.

  The result? A constant hail of shot hitting the brig’s deck disrupting their loading and killing anyone who stuck their heads up. The Hindustan moved in closer and at long pistol shot, Marty ordered the musketeers to fire. They aimed at the quarter deck, trying to hit the helmsman or the captain.

  Marty took his time. He raised the carbine. Took careful aim and squeezed of his shot. He reloaded without looking to see if he had hit his target and was ready in ten seconds for his second.

  The brig’s captain stood shaking his fist at them. His first shot had tugged at his coat as it passed through, narrowly missing him, and he was screaming abuse at his attackers. So, when Marty’s second shot blew a hole through his chest, he had a confused expression on his face as he looked down just before hitting the deck.

  His next target was the helmsman, who stood as the musket balls buzzed around him. A headshot was all he had to aim for. So, he took a breath, held it, breathed out slowly, and squeezed.

  The helmsman’s head exploded like one of the pumpkins he had practiced on.

  The brig fell away on the wind, closing the gap even more. Marty signaled again and the captain ordered, wear ship. They swung to starboard and circled around behind the brig bringing their starboard guns into play. Marty kept up a steady fire on anyone who tried to approach the wheel keeping it unmanned.

  The gun crews ran across and this time, an experienced man took a gun each. The rest of the men just concentrated on shifting the gun to their instructions. As they past the brig’s stern the guns fired one by one.

  They wore once more, but the brig’s crew had had enough and stood along the side waving their empty hands in surrender.

  Marty led his men over to the brig to secure it. He was ‘greeted’ at the entry by the site of the devastation his guns had rained down on the deck. It was covered in shot holes and bodies that had been ripped apart by the cannister. There were crew stood around, but they looked to have had all the fight shot out of them.

  He made his way carefully around with his sword out. He stopped when he was confronted by a man who stood in front of him and said.

  “You! It’s you innit!”

  Marty looked at the man who was blood splattered and realised he was probably only a few years older than himself.

  “Marty fucking Stockley. A fucking lieutenant.”

  He leaned towards Marty as if he was letting Marty see his face.

  “Ya don’t recognise me do ya. It was cus oh you that I was thrown of the Falcon. Remember me now?”

  Recognition clicked in Marty’s mind and he said,

  “Billy Smith?”

  “Yeah, and now I’m gonna do for you!”

  He launched himself at Marty who instinctively swayed to the side at the same time as crashing the pommel of his sword into his head. Smith hit the deck and stayed there, stunned.

  Garai and Antton rushed over and grabbed Smith as he started to move. They dragged him to his feet and held him with his arms pinned behind his back.

  “Put him in irons and find out what his role was on this ship. Make sure you round up all the crew that are left alive. I want all of them in irons and interrogated. I want to know everything about them, the ship, their base, and how they operated. They will all face trial for piracy once we get them to Madras.”

  He continued his inspection of the brig and was surprised at just how few crew had survived. The raking of her stern had killed many that had been hiding below decks to get away from the barrage of cannister shot that had rained down on the deck. The deck was red with blood and body parts. The dead lay everywhere.

  He heard a shot and listened for the sounds of a fight but heard nothing apart from the groans of the wounded. What he did hear was the sound of a boat bumping up against the side.

  He returned to the main deck and found the Hindostan’s surgeon attending some of the wounded.

  “There are more down below,” Marty told him, “But very few who will live.”

  “I will inspect them all and the ones I can save will be moved up on deck. What will you do with the dead?”

  “Throw them overboard,” Marty replied.

  “Without a burial service?”

  “They would have cut your throat and thrown you over the side even if you survived them taking the ship. Every one you save will hang in Madras and their bodies hung in a gibbet. They will not get a Christian burial.”

  “Then I’m wasting my time.”

  “No, you are making sure they live to get a fair trial.”

  “After which, they will hang.”

  There was another pistol shot.

  “What was that?” asked the surgeon.

  “A coup des grace probably,” Marty replied, “It’s normally done with a mallet.”

  The surgeon looked puzzled then shocked.

  “It’s a mercy,” Marty told him, “They are ending the suffering of those that have no chance but to die in agony.”

  “And you do that to your captives in the Navy?”

  “We do it for friends as well,” Marty said and turned away.

  The next evening at dinner with the brig clearly visible through the transom windows, the captain was telling everyone what happened.

  “So, I asked Lord Candor, Lieutenant Stockley that is, to assist me as he has far more experience in Naval warfare than I,” he explained, “But I couldn’t believe it when he said we had to give away the weather gauge. Then he explained that with us being the taller ship and the heal that the wind would give both ships, we would be firing almost directly down onto his deck. It was ingenious.”

  “Is it common for one crew to man three guns?” asked the general who had been one of the musketeers and had seen it all.

  “It’s not unknown for one crew to handle two guns when there have been a lot of casualties,” Marty replied, glad to stop the captain’s flow.

  “I think it was the most gallant of actions!” simpered Mrs, Templeton-Booth, who was dressed in an egg blue creation this evening.

  “All you men fought most bravely,” she said, looking admiringly at Marty, the general, colonel, and Ranjit Sihng. All of which had been on deck during the action. Her husband looked embarrassed as he hadn’t.

  “It turns out the ship was captained by a fellow known as Jerimiah Flann. An Irishman who had set himself up as some sort of pirate lord on the island of Réunion, which is incidentally owned by the French,” Marty explained, “He gathered a following of miscreants and rejects from anywhere he could find them.”

  “Is he amongst the prisoners?” asked Mr. Forbes.

  “He was killed when their quarter deck was subject to musket fire,” the general replied.

  Marty kept quiet about the fact that the musketeers had not hit anything apart from the woodwork.

  Caroline surreptitiously squeezed Marty’s thigh under the table to reassure him this would end soon as she saw the tell tail signs he was tired.

  “Your men are quest
ioning the captives?” Mr. Goldsmith asked in a surprisingly high voice.

  “Yes, we want to know as much as possible about their operation and base so we can do something about it in time,” Marty replied, “The captain’s clerk is over there transcribing everything that’s said.”

  “Are they anything to do with the revolt in Southern India?” he continued

  “Not that we know of,” Marty responded, wondering what they knew of his mission.

  “I don’t understand what the captain said about the weather gauge,” stated Mrs. Forbes, “It’s just mumbo jumbo to me.”

  “When two ships are going to fight the one on the windward side, the side from which the wind is blowing, has the weather gauge. It gives the advantage of being able to choose when you engage and sometimes being able to put the other ship in your lee. But the disadvantage is that your ship leans towards the other ship,” said Marty, demonstrating with his hands.

  “So, in this case, as we had the taller ship and our lean was giving even more height to our guns it was better that we let the brig have the weather gauge so we could shoot down onto her decks. Correct darling?” added Caroline.

  Marty nodded and smiled fondly at her.

  The next morning, Marty was in the living area of their suite playing with Beth. Blaez laid beside them and watched indulgently. He hardly left the infant’s side except to go on deck to go to the toilet. The footman got the job of cleaning up behind him while all the others were over on the prize.

  Caroline came in and sat to watch them. She was always touched by how easily he interacted with children. But then, being one of nine would teach you something, she thought.

  Blaez suddenly sat up and growled as he looked at the door. They looked at each other, and Caroline went to the drawer in the sideboard and took out one of her muff pistols. Marty grinned at her as she picked up Beth and sat with her on her lap with the pistol underneath the folds of the baby gown.

  Marty stood and went to the door, his left hand behind him on the hilt of his knife. He jerked it open and a surprised crewman almost fell through the opening. Marty grabbed him by the collar and dragged him in, shutting the door behind him.